Sweetheart and the Kid
by jewelpearl
Summary: The Hunger Games from the POV of everyone's favorite drunk...
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1: First Meeting

Ah well… I guess it's time to face the music, I think as I look at my reflection in the mirror. I'll go meet the newest "lambs to the slaughter". I guess, no – I know, I can't avoid them forever. I've led forty-six children to their deaths, what's two more? I lean my forehead up against its reflection. Oh, God… I'm not nearly buzzed enough for this shit. Again. If I act really drunk, maybe they'll just leave me be. One can only hope.

I walk into the car and see them sitting side-by-side in those ridiculously uncomfortable, low-backed blue chairs. Both of them immediately turn their terrified yet eager eyes to me. Of course, they do. The boy even grabs the end of the armrests and propels himself to the edge of his seat. Ooohh, edge of his seat, this must be so exciting for him! I stop when I get even with them, smile, or rather smirk, at them with as much insincerity as I can muster and say simply, "Congratulations," as if they've won some great prize, and gosh darn it, I'm so proud of them for it. I think the boy's mouth drops open a little at this. She, however, narrows her eyes. I think just maybe she gets me.

I walk beyond them to the bar cart, and I notice out of the corner of my eye that both of their heads swivel like a pair of synchronized oscillating fans, watching every move I make. It's then that I am confronted with the dilemma. Do I put my glass down to open the bottle and refill my glass? What to do, what to do? I know they are watching me. So I just pick up the bottle and remove the glass stopper with my mouth and pour the contents into my glass. I replace the stopper when I put the bottle down. OBVIOUSLY, this glass is not leaving my hand. I reach over to remove the lid to the ice bucket… and … what the fuck? I snicker internally in my brain – I know this will totally fuck with their heads… "Where's the ice?" I ask them, as if one of them has made off with it.

And just as I thought, the boy nervously answers, "I don't… I don't know…", as if he thinks I'm accusing him of stealing it... Good, I think. I let out a closed-mouth sigh and slam the lid back down onto the ice bucket. I turn and walk to them and ask "May I?" indicating that I'm asking permission – really? – to sit down and join them. She remains completely impassive, but he lets out a big sigh as he turns to watch me take the seat directly across from him.

"OK," he says, "so when do we start?"

"Oh… Whoa… so eager…. Most of you aren't in," I wave my hand around, "such a hurry." I take a gulp as he starts talking. Again.

"Yeah. I want to know what the plan is. You're our mentor". Oddly the emphasis is on the "OR" of mentor. I decide to play along.

"Mentor?" I say, mispronouncing it as he had.

"Yeah, you're our mentor" again with the emphasis on the wrong syllable. "You're supposed to tell us how to get sponsors, and give us advice." Oh no, he didn't just define the concept of mentor for me, as if I had no clue. The girl is still just looking at me without a hint of emotion on her face. I find her more curious than him. She doesn't seem weak. In fact, quite the opposite. Not that he seems weak; right now, he's just annoying. She, however, is kind of intriguing. Not that I'd let either one of them have a clue about what I'm thinking. However… she's obviously physically a Seam girl, but she seems well-fed and healthy. Where does that stem from? From her apparent poise, I'm pretty sure she's not one of Cray's girls. A few of them have been tributes in the past. Nothing good ever came from that. You can't fuck your way into being a Victor. Although I have seen a few try – both male and female. It was never pretty. So I decide to give him, both of them really, a hard dose of reality.

"Uhmm, embrace the probability of your imminent death. And know, in your heart, that there is nothing I can do to save you." The boy looks crestfallen. The girl just look pissed and asks…

"So why are you here then?" It's the first time I've heard her rather husky voice, and she sounds strong. I think for a minute that I recognize her. If she's who I think she is, she just may be the tribute I've been waiting for all these years.

"Oh, the refreshments…" I respond waving my glass around to make it even more obvious.

"OK, I think that's enough of that…" the boy jumps in trying to grab my drink. I pin him to his chair with my foot without much effort. I think now, maybe, he might see why I am a Victor. "You made me spill my drink… and these are brand-new pants…" Interesting… I just may have some fighters this year. I'll be able to tell in the morning if they haven't appeared to have totally given up yet. "I think I'll go finish this in my room."

I get up to leave, but I want to fuck with them just a little more. I get to the side of the train car, and I act as if I can't remember which way I'm supposed to go. I turn a couple rotations until I seem to remember, then walk off and grab a pastry on the way out. Let them ponder that. I remember too late that I should have picked up the bottle to bring with me, but I don't want to spoil my dramatic exit to go back for it.

I get back to my compartment on the train thinking I've made the suitable impression on my new tributes. I need them to contemplate the events rolling irretrievably their way. They'll either rise to the occasion, or they won't. I plan on letting them think about this over night. I've just laid back on my bed and picked up the remote for the television in my room when I hear a timid rapping on my door. 'Oh for Pete's sake… what now?' I think. If Effie is checking up on me again, I may just commit a capitol crime and kill her. This thought makes me laugh out loud. A Capitol crime…

I get up from the bed with murderous intentions and swing open the door to my compartment. Instead of facing Effie, as I was expecting, I am face to face with the boy – the kid, as he's indelibly etched in my brain. What the fuck? He's supposed to be in contemplation mode. I thought I had played that just right. Apparently not….

"What the hell do you want," I ask.

"What I want is to kick your ass," he says. Bring it on, I think. I'd like to show you a thing or two… But before I can do anything, he grabs the collar of my shirt and throws me back against my bed. Well, this was unexpected…

"I don't care what happens to you… or to me… but you are not going to let her down. DO YOU HEAR ME?" he all but screams into my face. I feign ignorance.

"Her?" I ask.

"Katniss Everdeen. Your female tribute this year, in case you don't recognize the name, you insufferable, alcoholic asshole."

Hmmmm. I'm thinking. I have a fighter on my hands. Unfortunately, he seems intent on saving the girl instead of himself. He continues…

"Everyone in District 12 knows why we never have a victor. It's because we have a lousy excuse for a mentor," he pauses. "Our one and only mentor". Again with the crazy emphasis on the last syllable. I begin to muse why he doesn't mispronounce the word "victor" the same way – "victOR"… Before I can get too far into this train of thought, I find myself with his hands around my throat. My curiosity overrules my natural instinct to put him down. The thing is… I am admittedly an alcoholic, but I guess you could say I'm a highly functional one. It's a defense mechanism. I am often far less drunk than I appear to be. Well, I guess the word "often" might be overstating it. Drunkenness serves my purposes, and no one needs to be any the wiser. Through the veil of alcohol, I observe all. Hmmm… Does that rhyme? Maybe I'm a little drunker than I thought. I decide to play along… if for no other reason than to get him to tell me what his deal is…

"What is your problem? And furthermore, what are you hoping to accomplish here in my private bedroom?" I ask him.

"I want you to be our mentor", he pauses while his mispronounced final syllable sinks in. "I'm strong. There's even a small chance that I could win the games, but that's not going to happen. Katniss is amazing. She has a much more real shot at winning, and I want to make sure that she does. You and I are going to help her do just that."

Well, I wasn't expecting that. I love to be surprised. It happens so infrequently.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: I've used the movie for the dialogue framework; the books for the background information.**

**My one and only disclaimer: Suzanne Collins is a genius… I'm just playing….**

Chapter 2: 2nd Meeting

I awake far too early with my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. Of all the things to hate about being a drunk, waking up day after day with extreme dry mouth is one of the worst. I tick, tick, tick the roof of my mouth several times trying to get some moisture in there. I notice that the sun is just coming up through the windows. If I move quickly, I can be almost done with breakfast before "they" wake up. If I move quickly… Come on, Haymitch… Move quickly… Well, hell. My body doesn't seem to want to move quickly, so I'll just have to hope that I'm early enough to be left alone.

Water… I drink about a gallon of it and then take a shower. I forgo getting dressed and put on my blue silk robe. Hope springs eternal that I will avoid the tributes at breakfast. I place my silver flask into the pocket of my robe and head down to the dining car. I look through the window into the car and drop my forehead to the door. Dammitalltohell! The boy's already sitting there eating. Well… fuck. The growling of my stomach reminds me of how hungry I am, so I suck it up and go into the car.

I walk in and take a seat diagonally across from the kid. It's a calculated move to try to let him know that I'm not up for conversation. No such luck.

"Good morning" he says quietly. He waits for a response, but I'm not going to give him one. He clears his throat, then adds, "you look better this morning."

I glare at him and start filling my plate with food. He starts to say something else to me, but before he can, Effie makes her clickety-clack entrance into the car. She walks over to stand behind the boy and places her hands on the back of his chair. Her colorful suit of orange and green is pretty overwhelming on the best of days, but her bright Kelly-green wig makes her look a little sickly. Capitol fashions… I'll never fully understand them. I'm sure she thinks she's made "bold" choices… "Bold choices" is the district equivalent of "stupid choices." I doubt anyone could pull that shade of green off without looking seriously under the weather.

"Oh, splendid, you're already up. Today is a big, big, big day! Where's the girl?" she asks him as she leans around him to look him in the face. I don't know what the boy's experience with women from the Capitol is, but having Effie's overly made-up face that close to his, this early in the morning, must be pretty horrifying. I stifle a snicker at the thought.

His head backs away from hers fractionally. "_Katniss_," he emphasizes her name, "isn't here yet. She's an early riser, though. She should be here soon." He pauses for a moment and then adds, "Thank you for asking about her." I can't help but wonder how he knows that she is an early riser….

Effie smiles brightly and taps him on the shoulder before adding, "Such good manners! I could almost forget that you are from District 12!" It's obvious that the boy has no idea how to respond to that, so he just offers a small smile. Effie turns to me and nods before she goes into the lounge area of the car to fuss even more with her make-up. Apparently it's true that some artists really don't know when to quit their canvas…

"So, what happens now?" the boy asks me. "What's our strategy?"

"Stay alive," I tell him. He glares back at me.

"Obviously," he answers. "A little more guidance would be appreciated. Such as, what's more important in training – learning to fight or learning to survive off of the arena."

What do you know, an intelligent question. "They're both important, but there's only so much about fighting you can learn in such a short amount of time. Some victors have been lucky to simply survive longer than those who can fight."

"So… pay attention to survival skills," he mumbles. It is at this point that I wonder how he knows this much about tribute training. His next comment makes me wonder about his mind-reading skills. "There was a short lesson in history class about the ways tributes are trained once they are in the Capitol. Unfortunately, it was only a forty-five minute class, but I paid attention. I think we all did. It was mandatory attendance because apparently nightmares about The Hunger Games themselves just weren't enough."

I like his sarcasm. It's pretty subtle, but it's there. I wasn't aware that the kids got this small amount of information about tribute training. I wonder why none of my previous tributes ever brought it up before. Maybe they did, and I was just too drunk to remember. I'm surprised by how much that thought bothers me. I decide to throw the kid a bone. "Do you have any specific survival questions?"

He chews on his bottom lip for a moment, then asks, "How do you find shelter? I've watched the games all my life, and I've noticed that some tributes find some kind of shelter, while others don't. The ones who succeed in finding shelter tend to live longer."

"Well, that would depend on the type of arena. There isn't one piece of advice that applies to all occasions. For instance," I scratch my chin, "if there's a mountain…"

"Should I try to climb up on it, find a cave, an overhang, something like that? Or would I be safer finding a highly placed flat, open space or ledge so that I can watch for any on-comers? Would that make me too visible?"

Wow, he's really thought about this a lot. I simply answer, "You'd freeze to death first." I'm thinking about expanding upon that thought, but he continues on.

" No, because then I'd light a fire."

And while you're at it, why don't you just wave your arms and yell – _tribute here, just come and kill me_, I think. Instead I say simply, "that's a good way to get killed." It is then that I hear the girl walking up. The permanent frown I noticed on her face yesterday, is still there… She might really be pretty if…

" What's a good way to get killed?" she asks with a wrinkle between her eyebrows. Again with the semi-scowl. Is she afraid the boy is getting mentoring that she won't? Is her attachment to him as strong as his is to her. Does she even know the boy is attached to her at all? She seems extremely _de_tached from him.

" Oh… Joy… Why don't you join us?" I sniff, hoping my sarcasm isn't lost on her. "I was just giving some life-saving advice." Oh, joy, will these questions never end…

"Like what?" she asks. I hate people who come late to a conversation. So much catching up for them, so much repetition for me, and I don't really have the energy for that.

" I was, I was just asking about how to find shelter." What do you know; the boy bailed me out…

I think I'll throw them a bone… " Which would come in handy if, in fact, you were still alive."

The girl asks, " How do you find shelter?" Damn… back to catching her up in the conversation. Fuck it. …Although… although, she seems really, I don't know, tough, determined… strong. Much more than any girl I've ever mentored before. Unfortunately, her dismal, sullen personality might just be her downfall.

"Pass the jam," I ask her.

" How **do** you find shelter?" she asks again. Let it go, please, please, please… I've mentored forty-six kids… to their deaths… well, now forty-eight… hope springs yet again eternal … I know this is the first and only time they will be in the games, but I've been doing this for twenty-three… now twenty-four years. Way more years than either of them have been alive… Can I catch a fucking break?

I plead with her, "give me a chance to wake up, Sweetheart. This mentoring is very… taxing stuff." I work fucking hard, damn it. I pull out my flask and add the contents to my coffee. Damn, I'm hungry. "Pass the marmalade." She picks up a table knife and slams it between my fingers into the table.

Effie shrieks, "that is MAHOGANY!" Mahogany… I'm pretty sure neither of them has any idea what mahogany is… Even that word just shouted out by Effie must sound like something from another planet. Maybe they think that "mahogany" in that context is a Capitol word for "bad manners…" As in, "that is unacceptable!"

" Look at you!" I tell her while pulling out the knife. "Just killed a… placemat. You really want to know how to stay alive?" I flick my hair out of my face, only for it to fall back again. This will curl her toes, "you get people to like you…" I gauge her reaction, "oh, not what you were expecting? Because if you're in the middle of the games, and you're starving, or freezing; some water, a knife, or some matches can make the difference between life and death, and those things only come from Sponsors. And to get sponsors, you have to make people like you. And right now, Sweetheart, you're not off to a real good start." Let her chew on that… I notice that the boy's face is lighting up.

"There it is," he cries. He runs to the window and looks out at the approaching Capitol. If only he had her fighting spirit. "It's HUGE! That's incredible." I remember the first time I saw the Capitol. I was just as awe-struck, but the decades of subsequent trips there have somewhat diminished the grandiose nature of it as I approach. Now it just seemed gaudy, overblown, and colorfully tacky. I may be a drunk, but I do have taste.

The train circles the tracks and enters a tunnel where the lights from outside become darkened. The boy looks slightly perplexed by the darkness and looks back at us. Suddenly, the world outside the train becomes bright again. There's a madly cheering crowd along the tracks of the train. The boy looks somewhat bewildered at the crowd, but then he begins, shyly at first, waving to the crowd. Then his confidence rises, and he begins smiling and waving more determinedly. The crowd begins to wave back enthusiastically. The people of the Capitol do love their district tributes! And even I have to admit that he's a good-looking kid. Actually… they are probably the best-looking couple I've ever mentored… Hmmmm….

He turns to the girl, "Come on…" and then more insistently as he continues to smile and wave to the crowd at the station, "**come on**…"

The girl remains resolutely glued to her seat. I turn to her, "you better keep this knife; he knows what he's doing…"

Who am I supposed to try to save?


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3: Waiting for the Parade

As the train came to a stop in the Capitol, the kids lined up at the door. I had already told them to go along with whatever their prep teams and stylists did to them, and under no circumstances complain. I knew the boy wouldn't be a problem, but I was a little worried that the girl might be pretty vocal if she objected to any of their ministrations. As I got up from the dining table to go to my room and change, I double-checked to make sure she hadn't taken the knife with her. Thankfully it was still sitting on the table. Just before the door to exit the train opened to let them out into the waiting arms of the Capitol I caught her looking back at the knife as well. Don't worry, sweetheart, your prep team are the least of the dangers you about to face.

After changing into one of my better suits, I exited the train myself and headed to one of my favorite pubs around the corner from the training center. I was anxious to hook up with some of the other mentors – my only true friends in this crazy world. I had barely cleared the door of Capitol Quaffs when I heard my name shouted from the far end of the bar.

"Haymitch, you drunken son-of-a-bitch!" Chaff shouted. I'm pretty sure that his train only got in about an hour before mine, but he was already pretty much in the bag. He jumped up, and we man-hugged with the requisite two slaps on each other's back. I looked over his shoulder and saw that Finnick and Johanna were also there poised on neighboring barstools. I guess Chaff and I weren't the only mentors who began drinking right after breakfast. There really wasn't much else for us to do on parade day. We couldn't actively start recruiting Sponsors until after the parade. Theoretically anyway. Plus, Finnick wouldn't probably drink much after today because of his "other work" for the President, so he usually got trashed on parade day. He always claimed that it was easier for him to start the "other work" when he had a raging hangover because that work made him "feel like shit" anyway. But he would stay sober from then on. I never understood his logic, but it seemed to work for him so I let it go.

"So, Haymitch, you've got a volunteer this year… That must be a first for District Twelve…" Finnick stated as I slid onto a barstool between him and Chaff. I guess I should have watched the Reaping recaps last night, but I knew they would play throughout the day while we waited for the parade in the evening. He continued, "She looks pretty determined. Is she a contender?"

"Oh God, I hope so," I said. "It would great to finally escort a live body home once. But the reality is that she volunteered for her kid sister who apparently just turned twelve… But I wouldn't count her out. My boy's not too bad either…"

Johanna drained the rest of her drink and slammed it down onto the bar. "Speaking of little twelve year-old girls, did you see Chaff's?" she asked. For once she wasn't being sarcastic and had an almost sad tone to her question.

That explained where Seeder, Chaff's co-mentor, was. Seeder was a mother and really soft-hearted, and she would usually accompany especially young tributes through their prep time. She once told me that these kids are terrified enough without the added trauma of being naked in front of nothing but total strangers.

I shook my head. "I haven't watched the recaps yet; don't they play them in here soon?" It was only about five minutes later when the re-broadcast of the recaps began on the huge screen behind the bar. All four of us watched in silence. I saw the usual career volunteers – the boy from Two looked particularly menacing. The rest of the districts seemed pretty run-of-the-mill until we got to Eleven. Wow, she was a little thing. However, she had a look of real determination on her face. Then they reaped the boy. "Holy cow!" was out of my mouth before I could control myself. Chaff chuckled quietly and said, "No kidding…" That kid was HUGE… and deadly-looking. Both Finnick and Johanna huffed quietly.

Then it was my district's reaping. I watched as a tiny blonde girl started making her way to the stage only to have her older sister volunteer. All kind of drama ensued; the Capitol would love that. More to the point, it means that District Twelve is already prominently in everyone's mind. Good… good, I can work with that. Then it becomes just a little more interesting. When the boy's name is called, my girl's face is a little… what? What was that look she gave?

"Did you see that? That look she had when his name was called? Tell me you saw that!" Finnick asked. Yes, I think, yes I did. Well, well, well. That is certainly interesting. I already know that he wants to save her, but could it be that she has feelings for him as well? She certainly didn't seem to on the train. Finnick continues on, "Well they are certainly an attractive pair. They shouldn't have any trouble attracting some sponsors. And they look a lot more healthy than most of your tributes." After he says this, I look back at my tributes shaking hands on the plaza platform. I get a really odd feeling in my chest. I don't know what it is, but it's a pretty strong feeling. Before I can think anymore about it, Johanna interrupts my train of thought.

"Well, my tributes are pretty much cornucopia fodder this year. I'll do my best with them, but I don't think they'll live past the first day. Actually, they don't think so either. It's pretty depressing… As usual…"

I don't know what that feeling in my chest is, but I'm pretty sure it's not depression – a feeling I'm intimately familiar with.

Chaff starts laughing. "You're awfully quiet, Haymitch. And you haven't even touched your drink. Are you OK?"

I chuckle, shaking my head and downing my drink in one gulp. "Fuck you, Chaff."

"So, Haymitch, have you met your new stylists?" Finnick asks.

New stylists? This is news to me. "No, who are they?"

Finnick smiles wide, "you really should pay more attention. They're supposed to be really good. Their names are Cinna and Portia. And… get this… they requested District Twelve."

"What? When did this happen, and how do you know about it?" I ask him.

Finnick shakes his head. "I spend A LOT of time in the Capitol, Haymitch. You know this."

Why would they request my district? As if reading my mind, Finnick continues, "I think they have some of our similar interests, if you know what I mean…" It takes me only a second to figure out what he means. Has the rebellion reached into the Capitol stylists? I look over at him, and his quirked eyebrow confirms my thoughts. I nod back at him, mulling this change of events over.

Finnick orders another round of drinks for us. I notice two women on the other end of the bar who are fluttering about and eyeballing Finnick like he's cool water in the desert. What a surprise, I think sarcastically. They lick their lips, yet again. Is that supposed to be sexy? Finnick soundly ignores them; he's not yet on the clock. I am so glad to be past all of that bullshit. Well, actually, I missed it altogether. Stupid President Snow made the mistake of murdering everyone I cared about before he requested my participation in "those" activities. I guess even an evil political genius makes an occasional bone-headed move. I didn't actually expect to live out the year of my Quarter Quell victory after I pointed out to him that there was no one he could threaten me with to coerce my prostitution participation, but since District Twelve had no other living Victor, I guess it would be hard to deal with my death. So, instead, I've been all alone for twenty-three years leading forty-six children to their gruesome deaths. Yay me!

We spend the rest of the day in this bar. We order lunch at some point. I realize somewhere along the way that I'm actually drinking less than the others, which is highly unusual for me. Finnick is especially getting drunk; he must have a full docket while he's here for the games. Maybe he always gets this drunk on parade day, but I'm too far-gone myself to notice it. Eventually we all get a car to the City Center to watch the parade. We all four take seats together among the excited Capitol citizens. Their frenzy is growing as the sun sets and the parade is about to begin.

Finally the large double doors to the parade route open and District One rolls in, in all their glitzy glory. Same old, same old, blah, blah, blah. Until… in the background I see an orange glow. "What's that?" Johanna asks. I also watch this orange glow until I realize that it's my tributes, and THEY ARE ON FIRE!

"Holy FUCK!" I practically scream. The blue-and-pink swirled, cotton-candy haired Capitol woman in front of me turns around to give me a disapproving look for my language. Oh sure, it's all right to work yourself into a frenzy over the possibility of children killing each other, but you mustn't swear. Please. "Turn back around, and let me look at my kids," I tell her. She turns in a huff. It's then that I notice that not only are my kids on fire, but they also look amazing! They both look beautiful, mythical, mysterious. And what's more, they're holding hands! Holding hands up in the air. Whose idea was that? I search the screens around the City Circle, and the only tributes shown there are mine. Chaff is clapping me on the back like I had something to do with this spectacle, and drunken Finnick is laughing his ass off. Johanna simply looks in shock. I look a few rows down and to my right and I see Brutus and Enobaria, the mentors from perennial favorite District Two, looking at me with blazing anger in their eyes. I crack myself up with my mental pun. I smile and give them a sarcastic thumbs-up gesture. I've never met this Cinna and Portia, but they have just become my two favorite people in the world.

As the chariots exit the City Circle, the four of us spring to our feet. I should be the only one excited by the parade, but it seems that we are all excited. That's a real measure of how well your tributes did in the parade – when mentors from other districts are excited about your kids. As all of the citizens in the Capitol work their way up the bleacher-like seating to exit to the streets that will take them home, a handful of people – mostly mentors, stylists, prep teams, and escorts – work their way down to parade level to get to our tributes. We get to the area of the huge double doors, but those doors are only for the chariots in the parade. There are smaller doors on either side for us lowly humans.

We burst through the side doors and split off to go to our separate tributes. For the first time in… well ever… I am excited to get to my tributes. As I walk up, Effie is greeting two people I don't know. They must be these amazing stylists. The man speaks first.

"That was amazing!" Oh good, we all love the word amazing…

Effie chimes in effervescently, "We are all anyone is going to be talking about!" She must be in heaven.

I decide to join the party. "So brave…" I have a lot more to say, admittedly most of it sarcastic in spite of my enthusiasm. The girl interrupts me.

"You sure you should be near an open flame?" SNAP, she's nailed me. Well, what do you know, she may even have a sense of humor.

"Fake flame?" I respond. "Are you sure you should…" And there he is… That career tribute from District Two. The one I was worried about from the moment I saw him. Heh, heh, He looks pissed. I'm sure he thought he would roll into the Capitol and be king of the games from moment one. Well, well, well… no wonder he looks pissed. My kids just stole the spotlight right out from under him. I LOVE IT! However, now is not the time to antagonize him further. "Let's, uhm, let's go upstairs." Effie happily gathers up my tributes. I look back one more time at the boy from Two, and if looks could kill… my tributes would never even make it to the first day of training, let alone the games.

Effie explains the basic layout of the training center to the kids. She calls our suite "the penthouse". It's basically just the top floor – no different from any of the other floors, but if it makes Effie feel more special, so be it. I tune her out as she natters on in the elevator ride up to the penthouse. That feeling in my chest returns, only it's more intense than before. Whoa, what is that? I look over to my kids, and I remember their triumphant performance in the parade. Suddenly I know what that feeling is – it's the alignment of many factors – two promising tributes, one of them a volunteer, the other one way more noble than most kids in this situation, new stylists who are a part of the rebellion and who make my kids look so much more than amazing, those same two kids holding their hands together up in the air, the citizens of the Capitol going completely insane for their performance in the parade, the jealousy from the other mentors and tributes. I know now what this feeling is, and it scares me. It's HOPE.

Ah well, fuck me.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

They exit the elevator looking around at the place that will be their home for the next week or so. It's the same way every year. The tributes from 12 have never seen anything like this. If they aren't too terrified after the treatment from the prep teams and stylists, the overblown spectacle of the tribute parade, the thousands of Capitol citizens already celebrating their imminent deaths, then they are agog as they enter this fantasy land that they never even knew to dream of. The garish colors and designs, the sparkling light fixtures, and the textures and art work are enough to enthrall anyone who has only seen the coal dust-coated wooden hovels of District 12.

Effie, ever aware of the lower-class nature (in her mind, at least) of all citizens of District 12, leads the way, "Come on… this is the living room… I know, I KNOW! Now your rooms are around…"

And by now I've completely tuned her out. I need a drink. I need to think. This is great. This is terrible. What am I going to do? The girl was stunning in the parade. And, if I'm honest with myself, so was the kid.

I watch them go into their respective rooms and shut the doors. They are so quiet; they still seem a little in shock, though a little less than most of the tributes I mentor. I'll see how they stand up to the first day of training before I get too optimistic. I may just be reacting to the tremendous designs of their new stylists. How did District 12 get so lucky? This doesn't make sense, but it's fucking great! I go straight to the liquor bar and fix myself a double bourbon and sit on the sofa in the living room that Effie had just pointed out to my kids.

I'm just taking my first full mouthful of the glorious tawny liquid when Effie's heels come click-clacking down the hall. She's in high spirits, "Well, well, well, that couldn't have gone better! They were magnificent. I really feel good about this year's tributes, Haymitch! She's a bit dour, but she's very pretty, and he's so very polite. Such great manners… not to mention how handsome…"

I chuckle at her enthusiasm. The shallow standards of Capitol citizens – attractive and polite – as if that will help them win in a barbaric fight to the death. Don't get me wrong; those qualities will definitely help attract sponsors, but when push comes to shove in the arena, those things don't count for much.

"Don't you think they have a good chance, Haymitch?" she asks expectantly.

"I think that if this were some cosmic etiquette contest, we'd definitely have the advantage. At least with the kid."

"Tsk, tsk." Seriously? Did she just "tsk" me? Who does that? "You've got to admit that these tributes are head and shoulders above what you usually have to work with. I mean, really, Haymitch. I've been your district's escort for fifteen years, and this is the first time I've felt so positive about the possibilities."

So… It's not just me. There is something amazingly, damningly, hopeful about these two kids. "Me too," I whisper and look straight into her eyes. She returns my gaze with an intelligence that I've never seen from her before. She gets it. She knows. There is something very different about these kids. Her look also tells me that she knows far more about the reality of these games than she has ever let on before. That just maybe I'm not the only one losing kids year after year.

I'd always thought that I was in this all alone. But for a long time she's been there too. She's been pulling names out of the reaping bowls and basically condemning kids to death. Maybe I've been too drunk in the past to notice that the death count is taking its toll on her too. My, my, my… is there actual substance to Effie Trinkett? As much as I hate to admit it, I've seen hints of it in the past. I've actually caught her crying when a few of our tributes have died in the arena – especially if they were particularly young or especially sweet. But then she would always collect herself and recite the Capitol party line about the need for the Hunger Games. About the need to prevent future wars and save lives, but she never crossed the line into celebrating the "fun" of it all. Maybe, just maybe, that was what she needed to do to hold on to her sanity. And maybe, just maybe, Effie isn't quite the Capitol troll I'd always thought her to be.

"We're going to play this a little differently this year," I tell her. I need to think about our strategy. She looks me straight in the eyes again and nods.

"Just let me know what I can do to help," she adds. With that, she gets up and goes off to her room, and I'm left to my own devices. I lean back onto the sofa and loosen my tie. Huh… what to do, what to do, what to do… Once or twice in the last twenty-four years I've thought I had a somewhat promising tribute, only to watch them die horrible deaths. Holy God, if I'd known when I was in my games that I would not only lose everyone I ever cared about, but also have to do this mentoring thing once a year for the rest of my life, I would have leapt happily off of the disc I was standing on when I was lifted into my arena before the clock ran down. I would've died instantly and spared myself all these years of torment. Ah well, you know what they say about hindsight…

I take another deep drink from my glass. I'm not nearly drunk enough. Actually, I'm thinking that I may take the kid up on his "threat" and stay relatively sober for these games. This is the first time I've felt a reason to do that.

The phone in our suite rings. I walk over and pick it up, "yeah, " I shout.

"Nice phone manners," Finnick says on the other end of the line. "What are you doing now?" he asks. "Can you come down to four?"

"Sure, why not?" I respond. "I'll be there in a few minutes." I pull my loosened tie and toss it onto the sofa. Then I replenish my drink and head toward the elevator. Don't want to get down there and find there are no refreshments.

When the elevator alerts me to my arrival on the fourth floor, I stand straight to enter their suite. I'm surprised, and yet not, to find that Chaff and Seeder (from District Eleven), Cecelia (from District Eight), Beetee (from District Three), and Johanna (from District Seven) are there with Finnick and Mags (both of the mentors from District Four). "Hey, Haymitch, good to see you," says Finnick, who seems remarkably more sober than he was this afternoon.

"Yeah, this looks like quite the mentor gathering. What's going on?" I ask. This is getting a little spooky, but I don't want to let them know that I'm apprehensive. Although these people are all my friends, as long as we have kids alive in the games, they are also strangely my enemies, so to speak.

Beetee speaks up, "We couldn't help but notice that your kids made quite the … ah, impression in the parade. I guess we wanted to talk to you about that."

Cecelia adds, "I couldn't help but notice your girl's pin from earlier in the day – very pretty – like a bright, shiny Coin."

I look immediately into Cecelia's eyes, and she's giving me a very pointed look. All of them are giving me a similarly pointed look. Well, well, well… So they've heard from District Thirteen about this. This is huge. I nod my understanding to them. We are all very aware of the listening devices around each apartment of the Training Center, so our conversation will have to be so, so careful. "I can ask her where she got it, if you'd like one like it," I respond as nonchalantly as I can.

"Oh, I don't think it would suit me as well as it suits her," Cecelia responds. Hmmm, so they think my girl may be the symbol we've been waiting years for. If they only knew how sullen and bad-tempered this particular girl is. Are they telling me that they want my girl to win?

"Yeah, it looks good on her… She's a little… er… shy… but she's very strong. My boy, however, he's the real charmer…" I reply, not letting on about my knowledge about the girl's true skill at hunting. Hell, even the girl doesn't know that I know about that. The boy may want the girl to win, but I haven't completely written him off yet. I have a little plan formulating in my head. It's absurd to think it might work, but maybe I can pull off the impossible.

"They're both very pretty kids," Finnick adds with another pointed look. They must be since this is about the fiftieth time someone has said that to me today. "If only this were a beauty contest, your kids would win hands down," he adds.

"Are they a couple? I mean are they dating or fucking or anything?" Johanna asks.

They will be if they aren't now, if I have anything to say about it. Dating I mean; I don't want to know about them fucking. "I don't rightly know, why do you ask?"

"The way they were holding hands in the chariot. I don't remember anyone ever doing that before," Johanna responds.

"And when we were watching the recap of the reaping at the bar today. That look she gave when his name was called. You saw it, too," Finnick adds.

"They're from different parts of the District, but they go to school together. I think they are in the same grade." I know he definitely has a thing for her, but I don't tell them that. I'm starting to think that my plan for the kids may suit all of these rebel/mentors as well. "I get that my kids made quite the splash, pardon the pun, Finnick, but why all this interest? Why this little impromptu mentors' meeting? And where's the bourbon?" Everyone snickers. Chaff grabs a bottle and refills my glass. I mean he really, really refills it. Now I remember why he's my best friend. Beetee responds to my questions.

"No official or formal reason. We were just interested in learning more about your tributes. Er… nothing that we could tell our own tributes… You know what I mean…"

"Actually I don't. Know what you mean, or know all that much about my tributes, yet. Besides the fact that he's the son of the local baker in Twelve."

Finnick decides to change the subject, "Lighten up, Haymitch. Their entrance in their fiery glory was the most interesting thing to happen in a while. We just wanted to get together and talk about it. Come on, everybody, drink up. This is my last day to drink for a while." He promptly goes around the room filling everyone's glasses with some unknown purple substance. Chaff and I stick with bourbon. Finnick slips several folded pieces of paper into my coat pocket while giving me a little shake of his head. He doesn't want me to read them here or anywhere there may be cameras. I give him a small nod back that I understand.

I spend about another hour in the suite with them, put away quite a bit more bourbon, and when I feel sufficiently buzzed, make my excuses to return to my own floor. I make my way straight to the bathroom in my room. Finally, I pull the papers from my pocket. There's one slip of paper for each of the districts that were represented at our little drinking party, and each slip is written in a different handwriting. There are lists of names on the slips along with personal details about those names. The names are of rich Capitol citizens. Basically, Districts Three, Four, Seven, Eight, and Eleven have handed me the names of known sponsors of the Hunger Games. Damn, but that feeling of hope in my chest just got a lot bigger. I change into pajamas and stuff the slips into the shirt pocket of them, and I button the flap. No one's getting this list away from me. I then stumble into my bed and pass out.

I wake to sunlight streaming through my window the next morning. I check the clock on the bedside table only to discover that my tributes will be going into their first day of training in about fifteen minutes. Fuck! I hurry as fast as I am able, which admittedly is not all that fast, into the bathroom and throw water onto my face, then I run my fingers through my bed-head hair. I grab my robe while slipping on my slippers before I exit my room. Effie is the first to notice my approach to the dining room.

"Oh, Haymitch, I was just about to escort Katniss and Peeta down to the training room. Do you have anything to tell them first?" she scolds with a severe look in her eyes. I notice that they are already standing beside the chairs they occupied while they had breakfast. The kid is looking at me expectantly while she is looking at me with her angry gray eyes formed into slits.

"Good morning Sweetheart," I say to her with a smirk, then nod at him, "Kid. Here's what I want you two to do today. Spend a lot of time at the survival stations. Remember what is in each survival station – especially the ones dealing with plants – because that may be a clue to the kind of arena you will be dealing with. Watch the other tributes and see what they're good at. Learn a new skill – if you've never thrown a knife, try to learn how. You probably won't become an expert in the time you've been given for training, but every little bit can help. And this is very important, under no circumstances are you to practice what you may already be good at. We don't want the other tributes to get that kind of information about you, so you will save those skills for the private training sessions with the gamemakers. Stick together as much as possible; let people see you together. We'll talk more tonight when you get back." Both of the kids nod their understanding.

I look over their heads to nod at Effie, and I realize that her face is registering slight shock. I've never given this kind of advice to the tributes before they begin training. Hell, I'm not usually even awake when they leave for training. She then huddles the kids past me toward the elevator, giving me one more look of wonder over her shoulder as they pass into elevator.

I sit at the empty place-setting at the head of the table and start fixing a plate with breakfast. I don't remember being this hungry at this time of day before. That may be because I'm rarely up at this time of day. The food is delicious and the privacy is even better. All too soon I hear the ding of the elevator returning – with Effie no doubt. I knew this was too good to be true. Sure enough, her heels are hitting the marble of the foyer, and she returns to the dining room.

"Well… Haymitch. You gave them advice before their training began. That's a first for you," she states while leaning on one foot and examining her nails. "What's up?"

"Like we discussed last night; I think these kids have an actual shot at victory," I answer. I narrow my eyes and look at her. "I'm working on a list of potential sponsors. I may want you to look it over to see if you know any of them." I look at her, and she seems shocked… again. "You said you wanted to help."

She shakes her head and sputters, "I do… Of course, I do. Just let me look over that list when you've got it." She walks over to the table in the foyer and pulls a pen and pad out of the drawer. She brings it back to the table and hands it to me. I look at it and then her with a question in my eyes.

"For the list, silly. Get to working…" She smiles at me, and for once, I smile back at her.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

How did my request for help from Effie turn into homework for me? Oh yeah, I have the list of potential sponsors under lock and key – well actually, button and flap to be more accurate – of my pajama shirt.

I go to my room after breakfast and head into the bathroom with the notepad Effie gave me. I don't even want to think about what any Capitol guard/observer will make of this action, if they are watching on the "hidden" cameras I suspect are in my bedroom. Surely the government – read that as President Snow – of Panem has more important 'fish to fry', as it were. I pull the potential sponsors on the pieces of paper from the pocket of my pajamas, and I write them and their personal information down on the pad – noting with a number in the margin the district mentor I received the recommendation from, in case I need them for an introduction. I then flush all of the pieces of paper I received last night down the toilet and tear the newly created sponsor list off the pad.

I peruse the list for several minutes, and I decide to organize it according to my personal familiarity with the names. The people I've actually met before – surprisingly about a third of the names, hello to twenty-four years as a mentor - go to the top of the list, followed by the names I've heard of but have never met. Finally I add the rest of the names to the list. I'm hoping Effie is familiar with the people in the last two categories. In all, there are almost thirty names on the list. In my experience that means that I will be lucky to get about one-fourth of them, or about seven or eight, for sponsors. That's so much more than I've ever had before. I tuck the "master list" with the annotated district numbers into a safe place after I make a second copy of the revised list for Effie, and then I take my shower and exit the bathroom.

After I emerge from my shower and dress in one of my dapper Capitol suits – who knew I could look so good? – certainly no one from my district has ever seen me this way, I meet Effie in the living room with my duplicate lists. I explain my "ordering" of the list and ask if she knows the people from the bottom-up. Why am I not surprised that Effie "knows or knows of" almost everyone on the list? I've always known that she was a full Capitol fashion-plate, but I never really contemplated the extent of the meaning of that. When she explains her knowledge of these names, I begin to wonder about her background/upbringing for the first time – wow, how shallow have I been for fifteen years. As long as I've known her, I never explored her as a person. Perhaps there is more to her than a simple Capitol functionary.

Also, it seems she has totally embraced the hope, if not downright optimism, I'm garnering from these two tributes. I'm realizing that it has been total snobbery on my part that has never let me see the woman who may actually **care** behind all that Capitol frippery. I mean… I mentor these kids year after year, but she's the one who actually pulls their names from the reaping bowls. Anyone with any decency at all, and I'm just figuring out that includes Effie, would, and maybe should, emotionally crater under the weight of that obligation. Suddenly, the clattering of her heels on almost every surface seems somehow less offensive and annoying.

Well armed with list in hand, Effie takes off to begin securing Sponsors. Her determination is really inspiring. I had told her to leave the top ten potential sponsors to me, and I began making a few phone calls to them. I was happily surprised to learn that they had all witnessed the tribute parade (who didn't in Panem?) and were all excited about my tributes. Somewhat disturbing were the off-hand comments about the tributes individually. It seems that some of the interest in either her or him was related to the kind of activities that Finnick is forced to pursue. Well, I'll face that bridge when I come to it. That excitement didn't necessarily translate immediately into money into the Sponsorship fund, but it was a start. I set up meetings with the most promising potential sponsors – approximately five from the top of the list. Considering that I'd never been able to secure more than three sponsors per Hunger Games in the last twenty-three years, I felt incredibly encouraged. Anything that Effie could come up with would just be icing on the cake. I giggled internally as I thought how my baker's son tribute would appreciate that train of thought. I do love a good pun.

By the time all of this work was done (much more than I'd ever done for any tributes I'd had to date), I realized that it was approaching late-afternoon, and I hadn't had so much as one sip of alcohol. Well, fuck me. The most surprising aspect of this epiphany was the fact that I hadn't even noticed the lack of alcohol. Less than half an hour later, Effie arrived in our suite with terrific news about her contacts on the list. She had gotten most of them to agree to a meeting, and two of them to commit funds for Sponsorship outright. Well done, Effie! Who knew that after all these years, all she needed were names to pursue! Or… maybe she just needed tributes she believed in, tributes who had made an impression from the outset.

Just then, the elevator dinged the arrival of said tributes from their day of training. Actually, the whole notion of actual, official Hunger Games training was rather a joke. How do you teach otherwise ordinary, innocent children to kill/murder and fight for their lives in the space of three days? But I digress. Both of them look apprehensive, sweaty, and tired when they arrive. Effie guides them towards their rooms for showers before dinner. I have an internal chuckle wondering if either of them has figured out the complex shower system. I guess I could explain it to them, I am their mentor after all, but it's much more fun watching the uninitiated try to figure it out. I'm guessing the boy, who is obviously from the blond-haired, merchant class has some experience with showers, but I'm pretty sure seam-girl does not. The whole shower system here in the Capitol is like an experiential IQ test. We'll see just how intelligent our tributes are…

About a half hour or so later both tributes emerge from their respective rooms, showered, clean, damp-haired, and redressed in casual clothes. When they arrive at the dinner table, I smell huge wafts of roses and vanilla. Funnily enough, the vanilla is coming from the Sweetheart and the roses are coming from the Kid. Har-de-har-har-har. What do you know, the town kid is having more trouble with the showers than the seam kid.

We all sit at our places at the dinner table awaiting the serving of our meal. I ask them how the first day of training went. I'm not at all surprised to hear there was an altercation involving the boy, Cato, – he's been on my mentor radar from the moment I laid eyes on him. Katniss explains the incident with the knife and relishes the notion that the little twelve-year-old from Eleven stole it and, by extension, bested him. She follows with wondering just how "dangerous" he is. In mentor-speak, how much do we need to worry about him? I think, "Good question, Sweetheart." However, I respond, " he's a career. Do you know what that is?" I'm pretty sure that everyone knows about "careers", but not everyone knows all about them.

She responds, "he's from District One." Just as I suspected – knowledge, but limited knowledge.

I decide to enlighten them further, "or Two. They train in a special academy until they're eighteen. Then they volunteer. At that point… they're pretty lethal." No use in sugar-coating it for them.

Effie tries to further assuage them, but with limited success, "but they don't receive any special treatment. In fact, they stay in the exact same apartment as you… And I don't think they let them have dessert… And you can!" Wow, that's a relief, and such a special treat. Apparently Sweetheart and the Kid can have the chocolate covered strawberries, while the careers can't. I'm sure they will sleep much better tonight knowing that little tidbit of information.

The Kid looks disbelievingly at Effie with slightly raised eyebrows. Apparently the magic appeal of those strawberries isn't as great as Effie believed. "So… how good are they?" he asks, apparently keenly aware of the shortcomings of the Capitol's obligatory (and pretty much worthless) three-day tribute training program.

Everyone in Panem knows the win ratio of the games. So I respond honestly, "obviously, they're pretty good… they win it almost every year…"

Effie huffs, as if I've let some deep, dark secret slip, " Almost…" she adds, shaking her head side to side. As much as my admiration/affection/opinion of Effie has grown in the last day or so, she's still a Capitolite. Most of them believe that the games are somehow set up fairly, and that the tribute training is actually meaningful. Just as they have been, no doubt, taught to believe that the Hunger Games serve an important civic or cultural purpose.

I decide to throw them an informational bone, "they're arrogant. And arrogance can be a BIG problem…" I look over at Sweetheart to see if this information is having the proper effect on her; more specifically, on her own arrogance. She thinks I don't see it. I notice her eyes cut a sideways glance at me. I've known those who played things close to the vest, so to speak, but nothing like this. She doesn't want anything about herself to surface before the games. I guess I can understand that. However, I think I surprise her with, " I hear you can shoot." I can't wait to hear/see what she does with that statement.

She equivocates, "I'm all right." That's it? That's all I'm going to get from her? I've finally realized that I've personally observed her trading with vendors at the Hob and merchants in town. She doesn't think I know these things about her. Her illegal hunting in the woods outside the fence in the district is probably the worst kept secret in Panem. I've even seen Peacekeepers buying her squirrels, rabbits, turkeys, etc. I myself have bought gamey pork and venison from the town butcher – that I'm sure she caught/killed in the wild of the woods.

Thank God the Kid chimes in, "she's better than all right. My father buys her squirrels. He says she hits them right in the eye… every time." He says this with such pride. This only supports what I already knew about his feelings for her: he's in love, or impossibly heavily in "like". She looks at him in extreme agitation; as if he's grown a second head, or at the very least, is plotting something against her. No doubt she's wondering where all this praise is coming from… as am I. If she's as good with a bow as I suspect she is, she's going to go a long way in these games. I just wish there was a way I could ensure she gets that bow!

After a few moments of contemplation, she turns to me and responds, "Peeta's strong." I'm reminded of that fleeting look of… something… when his name was called at the reaping.

He looks totally confused at her declaration. After several different emotions cross his face, he quietly asks, "what?"

She continues, "he can throw a hundred pound sack of flour right over his head. I've seen it." If he's thinking straight he will be amazed and delighted that she's obviously been watching him, but he's a tribute in the Hunger Games – facing his imminent death, and he's not likely to be thinking anywhere near straight.

Just as I suspect, he misses the meaningful point of her observations. He adds, "well, I'm not going to kill anybody with a sack of flour." True, I think, because sacks of flour as possible weapons in any cornucopia are about as likely as cookbooks and baking pans, as I'm sure he's well aware. But, Kid, don't underestimate the potential of physical strength, I can't help but also think.

But Sweetheart refuses to give up the possibilities, "you have a better chance of winning if someone comes at you with a knife…" But he violently interrupts her.

"I have NO chance of winning. NONE! All right?" He looks deeply at her and shrugs, and then he takes a moment to collect himself. He continues his rant, "it's true. Everybody knows it… Do you know what my mother said? She said District Twelve might finally have a winner… But she wasn't talking about me… she was talking about you… " All I can think is 'wow, he must have one suck-ass mother.' Finally his shoulders droop, and he adds, "I'm not hungry…" With that remark he rises from the table, throws his napkin onto his plate, and leaves the room. Everyone else at the table, including myself, freezes at his abrupt exit. Effie surreptitiously reaches her left hand over to my right elbow; she gets it; who knew?

I put my fork down onto my dinner plate and bow my head. After all of the positive/hopeful energy I've been receiving from my extraordinary, for once, tributes this year, I feel the first pang of the familiar despondency that is my usual Hunger Games mentoring companion. My fingers interweave with both hands, my thumbs massage my temples, and I close my eyes tightly against this feeling, then open my eyes and raise my head to look at this beautiful, and yes – fiery, young girl to my left. She's very, very deep in thought about something. Oh how I would love to be able to read her mind. The slight crinkle between her eyebrows betrays the seriousness of whatever it is that she is considering at this moment. She's staring at some fixed space in front of her which makes me think she is calculating the worth of some memory. Finally, she comes to some sort of a decision, throws her own napkin onto her dinner plate.

" I'm done, too," she says as she rises and walks out of the room.

I stare straight ahead as Effie leans into me and whispers, "what just happened?"

I can't help the chuckle/snort that escapes me. I lean into Effie and whisper back, "I think they both just got hit with a huge dose of reality…"


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

I'm up relatively early the next morning. Not only am I up early, but I feel really good. It's been a while since I went to bed that sober. Hmmmm…. I shower and dress in one of my nice Capitol suits, and I make it to breakfast in time to eat with Effie and my kids. All three of them look briefly shocked to not only see me there, but also looking so spiffy. I raise my eyebrow to Effie, and she immediately nods her understanding that I have potential sponsor meetings this morning, and she gives me a small wink. Sweetheart is her usual silent self, but the Kid gives me a small smile, in acknowledgement of my more serious and sober attitude. I guess he feels pretty pleased with himself. Whatever….

"Any words of advice for today's training session?" the Kid asks. Both their head swivel my way waiting for an answer.

"Keep on doing what we talked about yesterday. Stay together. Make it look like you… uhm…," I start. I know I can't finish this the way I want to – 'make it look like you are a couple' – so I state instead, "make it look like you are a team."

"Why?" Sweetheart asks. The Kid cuts his eyes to her and then down onto his plate. I can't help but think, 'come on, Sweetheart, don't make everything a question, chore, difficulty. And while you're at it, NOTICE HIM! Notice how much he likes you, and throw him a bone in what may be the last few days of his or your life. Hell, notice anything except your own self-absorption'.

But instead I say, "Because I'm working on a strategy for the both of you. This is part of it."

"What strategy?" she asks. Really… do I have to justify everything to her?

"Just do it, OK? If for no other reason than I am your mentor, and I've been a mentor since long before you were born, OK? Because, contrary to popular opinion in District 12," and I cut a look to the Kid, "I actually do know what I'm doing… OK?" my voice rising to nearly a shout at the end.

"Haymitch…" Effie whispers to calm me down. I take a deep breath and shake my head. Surely the three of them notice how much I am NOT drinking. It's painfully evident to me!

More quietly I add, "Just stick together and appear to be supporting each other. I have my reasons for asking this." I'm thinking that if I can have a victor this year, and I know that is the biggest "if" ever, I want to lay as much groundwork as possible for him or her to avoid Finnick's fate. This is one big television show after all, and the people of the Capitol love a great story. Well, I intend to give them one – I just haven't worked out all the details yet. That's what will get the sponsors on board as well. Looking over at Sweetheart I know that not only would she be a lousy actress, but also she would never agree to what I am planning, but she doesn't need to know all of the particulars. Hopefully, she will just slide into the role I am creating for her. I know the Kid will. In fact, I think it's almost time to have a good heart to heart with him. God, why do I always amuse myself with my internal puns?

Both of my kids sit quietly, strangely for the exact same amount of time, and then they are both nodding their heads in nearly perfect synchronization. If only I could get them to work this well together on purpose. Actually, secretly, I'm hoping that if they pretend to start supporting each other as an act, that it will become real for them and carry over into the arena.

Finally, they get up and Effie escorts them to today's training session. I have meetings scheduled with three potential sponsors today. I'll be meeting two of them in their homes, and the third in the Hunger Games Plaza. I have my spiel all worked out for each sponsor based on what they told me when I called them up. The first two seem genuinely interested in merely supporting my kids. The third, however, is one of those deviant sponsors. His name is Strato Highgrove. I've met him at several Capitol parties and events, and every time I've spoken to him I felt the overwhelming need to take a hot shower afterward. He oozes invisible malevolent shit from every cell in his body. His opinion of people from the districts ranks somewhere below a pet dog and above the slime on the bottom of his shoe. However, he is a huge publicity hound. Many in the Capitol see the worth of associating with Victors in terms of the attention it brings to them. He also sees Victors as something to use and toss aside. I wouldn't be talking to him at all if he weren't one of the richest people in the Capitol. Even so, he expressed a rather unhealthy interest in Sweetheart when we were on the phone. I'll need to play this just right so that I don't obligate her to anything beyond acknowledging his sponsorship publicly.

I'm organizing my sponsorship paperwork – my contact information and the forms that need to be filled out for a sponsor to donate money ahead of the games – when Effie returns from escorting the kids to training. We talk for a little while about the sponsor meetings she has set up for herself today, and I'm impressed with her efficiency in planning them. She asks about mine, and I tell her. When she hears the name Strato Highgrove, I hear her make a little gasp. I look up at her, and her expression is one of absolute panic.

"Oh, Haymitch… Do we really need someone like him?" she asks. Interesting… Even people from the Capitol find him disturbing.

"What do you know about him?" I ask, genuinely curious as to what the insider view of him is.

"Well…" she pauses. "He's rich to be sure. But he's… he's…" and then she whispers the rest, "not a very nice person." Then I notice tears welling up in her eyes. Wow, what did this asshole do? But then she continues, "No. No. I think you should talk to him. We need all the sponsorships we can secure. Just… Haymitch," she leans over and places her hand on my forearm resting on the table. "Just be careful about what you might obligate yourself or our victor to do." It is then that the tears slide down her cheeks leaving flesh-tone tracks through her pale makeup.

"Effie… what…" I try to ask her, but before I can get my entire question out, she gathers herself with a loud, deep sniff, and tear-tracks or not, her Capitol face is back.

"Oh how silly I'm being; do you realize that I just referred to 'our victor'?" she chuckles waving one of her gloved hands in front of her face, as if to erase her memories from the blackboard of her mind. "I do so hope that isn't the last time I say that. What time is your meeting in the Plaza?"

I look at her for a moment, taking in the absolutely real woman sitting across the table from me. I had always sort of thought of Effie as a cartoon version of a woman before, but she seems so, so real to me now. I don't know exactly what Highgrove did to her in the past, but his indiscretion goes onto my mental revenge list for the Capitol. However, if he's willing to donate sponsorship money, I'll take that, too. "My meeting there is at 3:00; I should be done around 3:30 or 4:00."

"I'll meet you in the plaza then. I just may see some people I know there who may also be potential sponsors…" she says as she tilts her head toward her right shoulder and gives me a genuine smile.

I nod my head, and I'm about to head out to my first meeting when her voice stops me just as I'm about to push the button for the elevator. "Haymitch, do be careful with what is said to Strato Highgrove. Really, really careful… OK?" I nod my head again, and push the button. I can't help but wonder even more strongly exactly what transpired between him and Effie in the past.

I arrive at the Plaza at around 2:45. My meetings so far today have been only moderately successful. The first potential sponsor stated that he would donate only if both of my tributes made it past the bloodbath of the cornucopia, and the second promised a modest sum up front. Not as much as I had been hoping for, but it's a start. Now for the truly difficult meeting with Strato Highgrove. I take a few deep breaths as I walk toward the over-sized "odds" board near the center of the Plaza. I notice the betting windows below it are already open and taking bets. I remove my jacket and sit on a bench near a family with two children. The little boy opens a cellophane wrapped plastic sword and starts chasing his sister with it. Oh good, they're playing Hunger Games, and their parents are laughing at their antics. After all, it's just good, clean Capitol fun! Right under the picture of the District 11 twelve-year-old with 45-1 odds. Capitol cretins.

I'm musing on all the things I would love to happen to those two spoiled Capitol kids and their parents, when an overly affected, oily voice greets me from behind. "Haymitch… I'm so very glad you could meet me here," declares Strato Highgrove. I look up over my right shoulder, and he's standing there on the other side of the bench. He's about forty years old, wearing a textured yellow jacket over a baby blue vest and pants, with a pale pink shirt. He's a vision in minty pastels. His shoulder-length brown hair is parted in the middle, with intermittent streaks of matching baby blue. In short, he is one of the most ridiculous looking men I've ever seen. And I've been coming to the Capitol for almost a quarter of a century, so I've seen quite a few ridiculous looking people. To add to the already strange picture he presents, his eyebrows both come to a point, crest, I don't know what to call it, in the middle of each one, and he has a diamond at both peaks. How is anyone supposed to take this asshole seriously? However silly he looks, he has the reputation of being one of the most dangerous men alive. So you better dismiss him at your own peril.

He gives me a bright smile, and I notice his front four teeth on the top and bottom are all baby blue. Not overly whitened by mistake, but honest to God baby blue. I'll have to work hard not to be just staring at them when he speaks. His fingernails are also painted a baby blue color. There is just so much color to look at! Come on, Haymitch, keep it together. Highgrove slides his ass onto the bench next to me, facing the opposite direction with his right shoulder next to mine. He's casting glances around the immediate area to see who is taking in his splendor. Any paparazzi? I may not be the most popular Victor, but with the upcoming Quarter Quell next year, there have been a few TV specials on the last Quarter Quell, which is the Hunger Games that I won, so my face has been out there more than usual. I notice him smiling, and I turn my head to follow his gaze where I catch a handful of photographers snapping our picture. Oh good, I think, I would hate for this numbnut to think his fashion efforts were wasted. And it must take a hell of a lot of effort to look this bad.

I finally respond with, "No, thanks for meeting me here. On the phone you expressed an interest in sponsoring my kids…" I figure I should just dive right to the point.

"Whoa, whoa, slow down there Haymitch. Let's order a drink first," he states while holding up his index finger to summon someone on the local wait staff. A pretty redhead approaches, and he orders us each a drink. I have no idea what he just ordered for me, but I am getting really, really thirsty. As the waitress scurries away to get our beverages, he comments, "Quite the performance in the Tribute Parade the other night… Your kids I mean… The whole city is talking…"

"Yeah, they looked very good," I agree.

"They looked more than good, Haymitch. They looked downright… edible," he says turning his head to me with a smug leer. "I especially liked that they looked healthier than most of the tributes from your God-forsaken district. Such nice, firm, developed bodies. On both of them. AND such attractive faces…"

OK, OK, OK, I get it. They're both good looking kids. Everyone doesn't need to keep repeating it to me. But how on earth am I supposed to respond to this perv? "Yeah, I think they both have a good shot at becoming the next Victor. Especially if they get some really good sponsors." There, that was a relatively safe and innocuous response. Our drinks arrive and what do you know, they are pastel layers in clear glasses. They match his outfit perfectly. Who knew?

"Tsk, tsk, tsk, Haymitch." Apparently Effie's not the only "tsk-er". "I hear from my sources in your district that the girl is practically the sole provider for her family. There's only so many ways a girl that young and pretty can accomplish that… Hmmm?"

I want to smash in those blue teeth. "She is quite resourceful, but not in the way you are thinking…" Why would he have sources in my district?

He chortles as if I have just said something really amusing. "Of course, she is… The boy, with his pretty blond hair, his square jaw, his pretty mouth. He's quite the looker as well." I have a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against same-sex relationships, but just the unctuous tone of this guy's voice is enough to set my teeth on edge. "I would be thrilled if either one of them won," he continues.

"So can I count on you to sponsor them?" Please say yes, please say yes, please say yes. I desperately need to get away from this vermin.

"I'll give you a great sum if you can sneak me into the training center before they go into the arena. I think a little three-way late at night might be just the thing to insure my sponsorship. I would absolutely love to be one of their last memories…"

I reach my hand up to his right eyeball and yank it out of its socket while he screams his bloody head off. I throw the eyeball onto the ground and grind it in with the heel of my shoe. …

Oh how I wish I really could do that! But I'll have to settle for fantasizing about it. This fantasy is good for me because it brings a slight smile to my face which totally belies my real feelings about this, this, … God, I can't think of a vile enough word to call him even in my imagination. So I respond to his request, "Sorry, no can do. There's not a more secure building in Panem right now than the training center."

"I suspected as much. Pity. I'll tell you what, if your tributes make it past the first week of the games, I'll make a sizeable contribution. For either or both of them depending."

Fuck my life… I was hoping for more from this asshole. I look at the rainbow drink in my hand. I haven't touched a drop of it. I'm thinking there are some things in life that are just too damn expensive. Not the drink, obviously, but this guy's sponsorship may end up costing too much to be worth it. Plus, if, as I suspect, my kids distinguish themselves in these games, I'll have better – less costly – sponsors lining up to support them. I've NEVER thought like that before. Just more evidence of how different this year is. I notice that he has already finished his pansy drink so I hand him mine. And he takes it! I stand and bow as deferentially as I can, and thank him for his time.

"You're leaving already?" he asks incredulously. Apparently he expected either more begging from me, or, more likely, more concessions to his requests.

This will fuck with his mind. "Oh, sorry, but my kids made such a splash at the Tribute Parade that I am completely booked up with sponsor meetings. Apparently, everyone who is anyone wants to hitch their wagon, as it were, to our rising stars. To be honest, I thought that was why you wanted to meet with me. Again, thanks for your time." I turn to walk away, and I see Effie leaning against a small bar on the other side of the Plaza watching me with a smirk on her face. Before I can get more than ten feet away from the bench, Dipstick Highgrove has swung his legs around to the other side of the bench, chased me down, and is pulling on my shoulder to stop me. Oh, I've got him now…

"Wait, Haymitch…" I can see the flash of paparazzi cameras in my periphery as he's chasing me down. Oooohhh, I can just see the picture in tomorrow's tabloids. Me with my back to him with him tapping me on the shoulder trying to stop me from walking away from him. This could actually work in our favor big time.

"I'm sorry. I thought you said you wanted to wait until a week into the games to make a sponsorship contribution. Did I misunderstand you?" I look at him with the most innocent expression I can muster, which admittedly isn't really all that innocent looking. Who's smug now? Don't over-play your hand, Haymitch…

"OK, listen. If both your tributes survive the opening at the cornucopia, I'll make a contribution. A sizable one. Just make sure I get the proper credit for it, OK?" I feel like pushing it; especially with this fellow.

"Define sizable…"

"50,000 to start with. If they continue to do well, I'll add more." I pull the sponsorship papers from my inside coat pocket.

"Thank you very much! Would you mind filling out this form so I can document your contribution?" I hand him the sponsorship form. He quickly fills it out, and I have just secured fifty grand if both tributes survive the cornucopia! Yay me! And I didn't even barf at his vulgarities. Win, win. I look away from him and return Effie's wink from this morning. Her smirk widens.

He hands me the papers. "I'll make sure you get the proper credit for this generous contribution. Again, thank you so much." He smirks as if he's won something big. I don't fucking care. My kids have some money. And the games haven't even started yet! This is a first for District 12 since I've been a mentor. I turn to shake his hand – as much as I find this guy revolting – and watch him walk away in the opposite direction. When he is well and truly gone, I turn and walk over to Effie. Between the sponsorship, albeit small, that I got this morning, the contribution from fucktwat Highgrove, and the sponsors that Effie has secured, we are off and running! I already have more than I have ever, ever gotten before, and the games haven't even started. Damn, that feeling of hope is now a bonfire in my chest. Keep it together, Haymitch, keep it together. Don't get ahead of yourself. Oh how I wish I could just enjoy this success. But such is not the nature of the Hunger Games.

Effie and I return to the Training Center just in time to greet our tributes as they return from their second day of training. Sweetheart shares a humorous story about the Kid's camouflaging skills. It seems his cake decorating abilities transfer nicely into the arena after all. I like that she's paying him more attention than she previously had. I can tell that something else of significance happened today, but they have closed ranks around it. Regardless, I like that they are acting as a team.

After they have showered – the Kid still smells like roses, could it be he's doing that on purpose? – we all meet for dinner. We laugh again about the camouflaging skills of the Kid, we talk about the shadow nature of the twelve-year-old for District 11 – I warn them against allies that do not further their odds. As much as it bothers me that this little girl is in the games, I'm trying to save MY tributes. Both of them nod, but it's clear that they both have overly big hearts, at least as far as the games are concerned. Ah well….

After a while it is time to talk about the Gamemakers' evaluation. "Tomorrow they'll bring you in one by one and evaluate you. This is important because higher ratings will mean sponsors." It's not the time for them to be involved in the mentoring/sponsorship end of the Games, but surely they understand at this point the importance of sponsors. An Avox tries to pour me a drink, but I hold my hand over my glass. This move does not go unnoticed by Sweetheart, the Kid, or Effie. I can see it on their faces. OK, yeah, I'm really serious here. Maybe now they get it. "This is the time to show them everything. There'll be a bow; make sure you use it. Peeta, you make sure to show your strength. They'll start with District One, so the two of you will go last. Well, I don't know how else to put this… make sure they remember you."

Again, they both nod to me in perfect synchronicity. I think the fact that I'm NOT drinking has now registered with both of them. It has certainly registered with me. I'm starting to feel a level of trust from them. They both walk to their rooms to retire for the night. Then and only then, do I take my first drink of the day.

I didn't even know I had this level of sobriety in me.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

I've met with a couple more sponsors today, and they've signed on! Modest sums, of course, but every little bit helps. Even with the modest sums, I've already raised more money for my kids than I have for any other tributes I've had in the past. And the games haven't even started. If this keeps up, I just may raise more sponsorship money than I have in the past twenty-three years combined. This makes me feel almost giddy! I catch myself chuckling at the oddest moments. Thank God I haven't devolved into giggling. That would be downright embarrassing. But it just may happen if things keep going the way they are.

I take a deep breath to center myself. I'm so enjoying my success that I'm almost forgetting that there are two teenagers whose lives are at stake. Reality check, Haymitch. In the course of things, this really has nothing to do with me. It's just… just… just that I've been here for twenty-three years. Twenty-three years of sadness, depression, gloom. I know that is why the mentors from the different districts form such intense friendships. No one else can possibly relate to what it's like for us. Year after year after year after year, etc. we accompany these kids to their inevitable deaths. Mustn't get attached, mustn't invest too much energy, mustn't… care.

And that's when the enormity of my situation settles in. I fucking care for – and about – these two. All day when I was meeting with potential sponsors, all I could think of was – how are my kids doing in their gamemaker evaluations? This is make-or-break time for them. Sure, they were glorious in the parade, but if their gamemaker evaluation scores are too low, then it's really all over. …Except maybe for the pervs like disgusting Strato Highgrove. Please, please, please don't let their scores suck, I plead to the universe. I've been a good little mentor… I've stayed relatively sober, I've contacted numerous potential sponsors and met with some of them, I've dressed up, for Pete's sake!

I'm returning to the lobby of the training center when I encounter a gamemaker exodus stampede. They are all avoiding my eye contact with me. Uh oh…. What could have possibly happened. I'm looking around for information when I spy Plutarch Heavensbee emerging from the elevator. I'm one of the few who know that he is the "gamemaker on the inside". In other words, he's the gamemaker on the side of the rebellion. He gives me a nod, and I follow him out onto the courtyard just outside of the training center. He sits down on a bench on the outer edge. I sit down on the bench with my legs on the opposite side of the bench. Not unlike the sitting arrangement I had with Strato Highgrove.

"What's up, Plutarch," I ask him. "What's with the rest of the gamemakers?"

He chuckles gently. "Oh, Haymitch… those are quite the kids you have this year…"

Uh oh, I think yet again. "What happened?"

Now he starts really laughing. "By the time your kids came in, most of the gamemakers were pretty much in the bag. I'm just surprised they weren't singing ancient sea chanties, that's how fucked up they were."

"So, what happened?" I ask trying to hide how absolutely nervous I am for his answer.

"Well, your boy went first. He threw all kinds of weights around the evaluation room. He's pretty damn strong, I must say, and that should get him a lift in his score. Then he showed us his camouflage skills. They were quite impressive, but that kind of skill doesn't usually translate into great gamemaker's scores. Unfortunately… Not that most of them were actually paying attention."

Well, crap. Have things really just gone south? My face must show my extreme disappointment.

"Hey, Haymitch. Lighten up." Not the first time I've heard that phrase in the past week. "Then your girl came in. Holy, holy crap, did she ever put on a show. Again, most of the gamemakers were thoroughly trashed. She used the bow and arrow to show some extraordinary skills, but unfortunately most of the gamemakers weren't paying very close attention." He chuckles again. "Their lack of attention just served to, apparently, piss her off."

Oh my God, what did she do, is all I can think. I am trying so desperately not to let go of the hope that has been building for the last few days. But we may be well and truly screwed. Very quietly I ask, "What did she do?"

"A little bit earlier someone delivered a big pig with an apple in its mouth for us to feast on. Seneca Crane had just walked back to the head of the pig when your girl shot the apple right out of its mouth. The apple that was just centimeters from Seneca's head, that is. Everyone just froze at that."

Oh. My. God. That's terrible. That's fucking awesome! I can't breathe.

Plutarch continues, "Before Seneca or anyone else could say anything to her, she mock-bowed and said 'thank you for your consideration.' She then turned around and just walked out of the room without being dismissed." By the end of his story he's chuckling lightly. "She's quite the spitfire, that one. So much drama… From reaping day… to her fiery performance in the parade… to actually shooting an arrow at the head gamemaker… She's taking these games by storm!"

So she shot an arrow at them, then mocked them, and then just walked out on them. Holy crap! This just may be the most awesome girl on the face of the planet! FUCK! How in the hell am I going to spin this to our advantage? "How badly do you think this is going to impact her score?"

"That's hard to say…. It depends on a lot of factors. How mad was Seneca?... On the other hand, if she gets a really low score, people might wonder why… And Seneca doesn't want the drunken revelry of the gamemakers to come to light… That would undo any perceived legitimacy of the tribute training program. So, I'd say it's anyone's guess at this point."

I stand up and turn my face to the sky. I have to make sure that Seneca knows that I know what went on, without exposing Plutarch. "Thanks, Plutarch. I've got a few things to figure out…" He rises as well and walks off chuckling and shaking his head. I walk back into the lobby, and Seneca Crane is just exiting the elevator. He takes a few steps with his eyes on the floor, and when he looks up I lock eyes with him. He stops in his tracks. After a moment he continues on his course to the doors I'm still standing in front of. When he gets even with me, he nods his head and says simply, "Haymitch." I'm still standing in front of him all but blocking his exit through the doors.

He nervously chuckles and shifts to his right, and I move in the same direction – blocking his exit. "Quite the tributes you have this year, eh?" he asks.

I nod my head and then smile broadly. I know just how to work this. "Yes, they are… In fact, I'm getting crazy requests to sponsor them already. From some very, very influential people, too." There, chew on that. "I'm just getting back from securing sponsors; I'm heading up right now to see how my kids did in their private sessions."

He side-steps around me to the left to get to the doors, "Well, I'll let you get to them then. Good evening." And he's out the door. I can tell he's still a little spooked from the arrow incident, and I think… hope… I just spooked him a little more. When I get onto the elevator, I turn and look at my reflection on the inside of the shiny doors. I notice I have a huge smirk on my face. Then I am all-out laughing. I'm laughing so hard that I'm bending at my waist and holding onto the side of the elevator. When I arrive at the suite, I hear Effie caterwauling about those damn manners she seems to obsess on, and trying to get Cinna to agree with her.

I strut – STRUT – into view and Effie adds, "Well, finally… We have a serious situation."

I am still chortling when I give Sweetheart a huge thumbs up. A shy smile lights up her face, making her really beautiful. I also see a smile on the Kid's face as he sits next to her on the sofa. I take a seat in the chair across from them. "Nice shooting, Sweetheart." I can't stop cackling. "What did they… What did they do when you shot the apple?"

She's still smiling and I notice a little dimple on the side of her chin. "Well, they looked pretty startled."

At this I am all-out laughing again, and the Kid and Cinna join in. "OH! Yeah! " I continue laughing. Effie continues pacing. I can barely get out my next question, "Now, what'd you say? Thanks for your…"

Sweetheart's even chuckling now and she nods, "consideration."

"Genius…" I pump my fist in front of me, "genius."

In her typical killjoy fashion, Effie stops her pacing behind the sofa and looks straight at me. "I don't think we're going to find this funny if the gamemakers decide to take it out …"

"On who?" I interrupt her. "On her? On him?" I indicate the kids. "I think they already have. Loosen your corset, have a drink." Effie has been pretty cool the last few days, but she needs to get over herself right now. I need my kids feeling positive. I look back at Sweetheart, "I would've given anything to see it."

Eventually we break into various conversations around the room. Cinna and Portia, who were apparently fitting the kids for their interview costumes – and that's what they are – costumes, make a pleasant addition to the evening, and soon Effie calms down. Finally it's time to broadcast the tribute scores. My heart is beating wildly in my chest, but I try to keep everything low key. Sweetheart and the Kid re-take their seats in the center of the sofa, and the rest of us sit all around them. Someone turns on the TV, and we can hear Caesar explaining the tribute rating system.

" As you know the tributes are rated on a scale of one to twelve after three days of careful evaluation. Gamemakers would like to acknowledge… "

And I've tuned him out. I know how the damn rating system works, as does everyone else in Panem. I just keep hoping that my little mind-game with Seneca Crane pays off. With a good score for each of my kids, the sponsors will be lining up! If the kids get a good score. How much do I hate all the big fucking if's in my life. Ah, he's actually revealing scores now…

Caesar fades back in to my consciousness… "From District One – Marvel, with a score of Nine," I see his face appear and the number floats across the television screen in front of it. The girl from one has a middling score. Now for District 2 – "Cato, a score of ten" and the double digit revolves around the image of his smirking head. "And Clove, a score of ten" and again the score revolves around her head. There follows a surrealistic montage of irrelevant scores for the unremarkable tributes. Then we arrive at District 11, and I see the number nine float across the giant Thresh's picture, and then little Rue, a score of seven, damn, but that's an excellent score for such a little one. And we finally, finally arrive at our district's tribute scores. I see the Kid sit forward on the sofa waiting for his score. "From Distrist 12, Peeta Mellark," he leans further forward, "a score of" and Caesar's voice lowers, "Eight!" And everyone erupts in celebration.

I begin to worry… if the Kid got an eight… is that to compensate for Sweetheart getting a really low score? After all, he didn't really do anything to distinguish himself among the drunken gamemakers.

While I'm thinking all of this, I hear Portia let out a rather loud sigh of relief followed by Cinna adding a supporting "Bravo." I even hear Effie add, "we can work with that." I see the Kid smile and lean back into the sofa in relief. He's told me how much he wants to save/help Sweetheart, but that doesn't eliminate his innate male pride.

Now comes the REAL moment of truth…

What the hell score is SHE going to get? It's either going to be great, or it's going to be the biggest SUCK score of all time. We've all turned our attention back to the TV. I really don't think any of us are breathing. If Caesar doesn't announce her score soon, we all may just asphyxiate ourselves.

After a long inordinate pause, Caesar returns with, "And finally… from District 12…Katniss Everdeen… with a score of…" What the hell? A dramatic pause…really? I see sideways glances from Effie, and I see Sweetheart's head drop down to her chest. I find myself biting the insides of my cheeks and puckering my lips… Come on, come on, come on… damn it…

And then Caesar almost shouts, rather gleefully, "Eleven!" And the room erupts into whoops of celebration. I hear the overlapping comments of "Outstanding," from Cinna, "Who would have thought," from Effie, "Congratulations," rather quietly from the Kid. All I can do is let out a huge sigh of relief.

She looks at me rather confused, "I thought they hated me…"

I can't help but chuckle as I say, "They must've liked your guts."

Cinna raises his glass and says, "To Katniss Everdeen, the girl on fire!" Glasses are clinked all around by the adults present.

Our celebration continues for a while before I notice the Kid's not with us anymore. I look around the common areas of the suite, but I don't see him anywhere. I slip quietly down the hall and knock on his door. I don't get an answer, but I open the door anyway. The Kid's sitting on the opposite side of his bed staring into space. He has his legs pulled up, and he's hugging them tightly with his arms. "This is a nice room," I say to the back of his head while I'm shutting the door behind me. With more regret than I thought I'd ever have, I realize I've never actually been in the tributes' bedrooms before.

He let's out a small snort, "You say that like you've never seen it before."

"Yeah, well, truth be told, I haven't"

Without moving his body, he swivels his head back to give me the most incredulous look I think I have ever been on the receiving end of. "Seriously?" he asks.

I walk around to face him on the opposite side of the room and lean against the dresser there. "Yeah, seriously," I whisper.

"So, after all these years, why are you in here now?" he asks.

Why am I in here now? "I'm not sure I know…" is the best I can manage under the circumstances. "I just noticed you were gone."

"Why do you care?" he asked tilting his head to the side. It wasn't said with any hostility, just sincere curiosity.

"I don't know, to be totally honest… I just do…" I look to my left. "This is a totally new experience for me. But… I can honestly say that I DO care..."

"Really?" he asks….

"Do you think I like feeling this way? Do you think I like having feelings at all?"

"Actually, I'm guessing this is very uncomfortable for you…," he chuckles a little with his statement.

"You would be right," I answer. "So, why are you in here instead of celebrating with everyone else? She may have gotten the better score, but you still have a shot…"

"Didn't you hear me the other day? I have NO shot at all… I've prepared myself to die…"

I can't help but ask, "Then why are you in here?"

He looks up at me with wide eyes. "I just want to help Katniss. But I'm afraid with my score that I won't be able to…"

"Why? Why are you so set on dying? Why do you want to help her so badly? What's so special about her?" Now I think I'm going to be able to get to the heart of the matter.

"Why? Just look at her. She's amazing. She's beautiful… and… and… smart… and brave. When her father died, she was only eleven or twelve years old, but she took over taking care of her family. She volunteered to save her sister. Hell, she shot an arrow at the gamemakers and got an eleven! She's the Girl on Fire!"

I look him dead in the eyes, "You love her."

He looks at me as if I were the stupidest person on the planet. "Well… duh," is his only response.

"Well, all right then. I have a plan for how you can help her, but you can't let her know about it. Do you think you can do that?"

"Help her or keep it from her?" he asks.

"Both," I answer simply.

"What do you want me to do?"

"I want you to go on national television and tell the whole country that you are in love with her." There. I laid it out for him.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

The Kid looks at me with an expression that can only be described as AGHAST. "What?" he whispers.

"You heard me, tell the world that you love her," I answer. "You said you wanted to help her."

"How can that possibly help her?" He finally unfolds his legs and arms from their tightly wound position.

I sit down on the bed next to him, bringing one leg up so I can face him. "Listen… You described to me the Katniss you find amazing. I suspect you've been… uhm… keeping tabs on her for a long time…"

"Practically my entire life." I nod; I thought that was the case.

"That's all well and good, but the Katniss you described is not the one the Capitol will see. Shall I describe to you what I have observed of her in the few days that I have known her?" He reluctantly nods. "Let's see… She's quiet and private to the point of being sullen, and that makes her look rude, although I don't think that's her intent. She could be really beautiful but for the permanent scowl on her face. When she does speak, it is rarely in complete sentences. She's argumentative, dismissive, and distrusting, even with people who are trying to help her. Even with the boy who is in love with her. AND she doesn't know you are in love with her because she's completely self-absorbed, which, I suppose, is somewhat understandable given where she is. In short, she lacks charm and charisma – two qualities necessary to attract sponsors, and two things coincidentally that you, my boy, have in spades."

"Wow, you really, really don't like her, do you?" He looks puzzled. "Soooo…., you think I'm charming," at this he pauses and cocks an incredulous eyebrow at me, "and what? You hope to make her charming by association? Will that even work?"

"Actually, I think she's one hell of an awesome kid. I'm talking about what comes through in superficial observation, and the people of the Capitol are nothing if not superficial." I think about the second statement in his observation. "Charming by association, eh? I guess that's one way of looking at it. I was really thinking about making her more… uhm… desirable, I guess is the word. More desirable to sponsor. And nothing makes a girl more desirable than when a good-looking boy wants her."

He squints his eyes in thought then shakes his head. "I don't know if I can say that on national TV. It would be so embarrassing if she got mad, or said that she doesn't like me, or something. I mean, we've never even really talked to each other before coming here."

Is he kidding? Does he think he's asking her to the harvest festival dance, and the worst that will happen is she might turn him down? "Listen, Kid, you've told me that you are reconciled to your own death, for Pete's sake. And yet you're afraid of telling the truth about your feelings for her for fear of rejection? THAT scares you more than dying?"

He just stares at me in silence for a moment. Then ever so slowly his lips twitch into a smile, which leads to chuckles, which leads to full-tilt laughter. I begin to wonder if the stress of the situation is finally getting to him, but I realize this is just his personality. He continues laughing robustly when he falls back onto the bed staring at the ceiling. Eventually I start chuckling myself. Getting himself somewhat under control, he states, "Well, I guess when you put it that way…." And he's off into another fit of giggles. Damn, but this is a great kid; how can I possibly even think about him dying? I can't. You'd think after twenty-three years of marching kids to their inevitable deaths I would be over it. But this kid is different, and so is Sweetheart. I just can't let this kid die. Either of them, really. Somehow, I have to pull off the impossible. As he's wiping tears from the laughter from his eyes, he asks me, "So how would I do this?"

"We have to be subtle about it. If you just blurt it out it will seem contrived and therefore unbelievable," I answer, taking a pause to mull over several different subtle scenarios that might work. "You'll have to let Caesar 'pull' it out of you in your interview."

"But what if he doesn't take my interview in that direction?"

He really doesn't get the power he has. I stand up from the bed and grab his elbow and drag him to the mirror over the dresser. I stand behind him with my hands on his shoulders. "Look in that mirror, and tell me what you see…"

Confused, he meets my eyes in the reflection and answers hesitantly, "Uhm, you and me?"

"I'll tell you what I see. I see the most handsome male tribute of the 74th Hunger Games." Hell, he's one of the most handsome boys in all of Panem; he could even give Finnick a run for his money in that department. His cheeks redden at the compliment. "That's almost more important than your evaluation score, which, by the way, was a really decent score. Remember, the people of the Capitol are incredibly shallow. There is no way that Caesar won't ask you about your love life." Plus, and the Kid doesn't need to know this, I plan to plant a little seed with Caesar ahead of time. Finnick might come in handy for that; he and Caesar are pretty tight since Finnick appears on Caesar's regular broadcast show on a frequent basis. In addition, Finnick is one of the best actors I know; he pretty much has to be. He's also one of the few people I know who fully understands that the Games don't just happen in the arena.

The Kid's eyes cast down and to the right for a moment, and then he returns their gaze to his reflection. "OK, I'll do it," he says. "But why aren't we telling Katniss about this ahead of time?"

"Oh a few reasons… she'll never go along with it, or she'll argue about it." I pause to take in his slightly disbelieving expression. "Oh come on, you know she will. You've seen how much she questions what I tell her to do. But mainly, she's just a lousy actress. Or at least I'm betting that she is. The best responses from her are her genuine ones. Take for example what she did in her evaluation session with the gamemakers. That was the real Katniss, and she was brilliant. I think this will work in much the same way."

The dawn of realization appears on his face. "This is why you wanted us to work as a team. You were trying to establish us as a couple!" And he's smart, too…

"Ding, ding, got it in one."

"How long have you been hatching this little scheme of yours?" he asks tilting his head around to look at me.

"Pretty much since I saw the two of you holding your hands up in the air in the tribute parade." He turns around to look back at our joint reflections. Actually longer than that, if I'm honest with myself, as I also gaze into the mirror. The idea first emerged unformed when I saw the look on Sweetheart's face when his name was called in the recap of the reapings I watched with my fellow mentors at Capitol Quaffs. Even Finnick saw her "look". And if he saw it, then so did citizens of the Capitol… and gamemakers… and all of Panem. At that point, I already knew that he had a thing for her. But when I saw her innocent and unguarded response to his name being called in the reaping, I knew I had a special couple of kids.

That's it. I'm going to pull off the impossible. After all, I won the Second Quarter Quell, when there were twice as many tributes as normal. Many thought my winning was impossible. So… I have believed in achieving the impossible in the past, even though it's been nearly a quarter of a century since I embraced that belief. Worst case scenario, (other than both of my kids being killed) if only one of my kids wins… at least their "love story" may protect them from a future too horrible to contemplate. With this in mind, I firmly resolve I WILL ACHIEVE THE IMPOSSIBLE! Oh, God, I must be completely insane! Years of mentoring without company or success have finally worn me down…

"So, how do we deal with Katniss?" Good question. He's so open and honest that I'm unsure that he will be able to pull off some sort of deception. It suddenly occurs to me that I will need to keep them separated to pull this off. Well crap… when did I become the arbiter of teenage dating drama?

"You just relax in here, and I'll have your dinner sent in. I'll tell her that you've asked to be trained separately." I walk toward the door.

He mulls this over for a minute. "Why would I do that? What is she going to think?"

Good questions. This is getting tricky. I need to get him to trust me unquestioningly, and to get him to believe that I will "back his play" where his lady-love is concerned. Because, quite frankly, I believe in these two kids. I believe in these two kids as a couple. He loves her. I'm not exactly sure what her feelings are for him, but I'm absolutely sure she cares for him on some level. I remember that look of contemplation she had the other night at dinner after she had revealed that she had been watching him toss the sacks of flour and after he had stormed out of the dining room. Damn, I hate that she is so closed off. If only I could crack her protective shell. I vaguely remember that when she brings her hunting bounty into the Hob and elsewhere that there is a young man with her. As I recall, he was the one who picked up her little sister and carried her away at the reaping. But… but… that kid is back in District 12 and she is here… the Kid is here… and there was her "look" at the reaping…

"I'm going to ask a lot of you," I tell him as I turn from the door to look back at him; he's still watching my reflection in the mirror. "I will take care of you, and more importantly I will take care of her, but I'm asking you to trust me. Trust me as you have never trusted anyone in your entire life. I have a plan. Do you think you can do that?"

He looks at me with slitted eyes, as if he were mulling over my words, and the sincerity behind them. "I want to trust you… you have no idea how much. But what is she going to think?" he asks again, finally turning around to face me from across the room.

"I'm not going to lie to you. She's going to be pissed at first. And maybe past first, second, and beyond… but, if I can pull off what I'm planning, she will have no alternative but to be on board with the plan." I remember that he has no clue about her possible attraction to him. "And just maybe, she'll be on board with you as well," I continue.

"You think so?" He crosses his arms.

"More like I hope so. At any rate, what do you have to lose? Odds are you will be dead in a few days/weeks, anyway. And if you aren't, then maybe, just maybe you two kids might have a future together. How does that sound? More importantly, how does that feel?"

"It sounds great, but it also sounds and feels hopeless and impossible. What are you getting at?" I notice that there is a look of doubt and overwhelming reality crossing his face. I decide that sharing the entire scope of my plan right now might be lost on him in the midst of his emotional trauma in anticipation of his performance in the Games. In fact, it may be detrimental to reveal the extent of my plans to him since he needs to face head-on the reality of the Hunger Games. To give him what might be false hope at this point might only end up damaging him. And I certainly don't want to damage him just before he goes into the Games. 

"This is where the trust I was talking about needs to come in. You and Katniss are decidedly different than any other tributes I have mentored in the past. I have quite a few 'balls in the air' right now, but if I can juggle them just right, I just may have a victor this year." There. I've revealed enough to keep him satisfied without overwhelming him.

"And that victor is going to be Katniss, right?"

"Oh yes, I plan to do everything in my power to make sure that she makes it out of that arena alive," I tell him. You are going to make it too, if the odds are finally in my favor, I mentally add. "District 12 currently has the longest stretch without a victor; it's our time! So, just play along with my plan, and you will be helping her, OK?"

He takes a moment to consider what I've said, and then he nods his head in agreement. "Perfect," I tell him. "You just wait in here and I'll have your dinner brought into you." With that, I turn and leave the room. I can hear the others settling down in the dining room. As I pass through the living room I whisper to the Avox there to bring the Kid's meal into his room.

I pass into the dining room as Effie is nattering on. I grab an asparagus spear out of a chafing dish and cross to my seat at the head of the table. Effie's attention turns to me, "Ah!... Haymitch… Join us, we're having some of your favorites for dinner … " I look around the table at Effie, Cinna, Portia, and finally at Sweetheart. I know I have to play the next few minutes just right.

"Where's Peeta?" Sweetheart asks. Excellent, she's already missed him.

"He's in his room. Now," and at this point I clear my throat, hoping to appear a little uncomfortable, "listen. Tomorrow's the last day when they let us work with our own tributes, right before the games, so you and I will be going down at nine."

She looks a little confused. "Well, what about him?" Effie looks over the top of her glass as she takes a sip. Cinna averts his eyes as well. Excellent, I couldn't have directed them to play their parts any better than that. And neither of them knows what I have planned.

I look down at the table, "Oh, he says he wants to be trained on his own, now."

Looking straight at me she whispers, "What?"

I finally look right at her, "This kind of thing does happen at this point. There's only one winner, right?" I try to muster a small smile of understanding for her. She looks slightly bewildered and more than a little hurt. Good. She turns back to face forward looking straight at Cinna. He has nothing to offer her so she keeps her head up but looks down at her plate with her eyes. Not for the first time do I wish, wish, wish I could read her mind. An awkward moment of silence settles on the table.

I knew I could count on Effie to break it, "We should have some chocolate covered strawberries…" she says pleasantly, as if an elephant hadn't just entered the room, and she raises a hand to summon the dessert.

"Oh, marvelous," Portia adds, also trying to lighten the mood. Sweetheart lingers at the table just long enough to sample one of those famous strawberries, after hearing Effie go on and on about them in the past few days. Then she excuses herself to go to her room.

"I'll see you in the morning," I say to her. I see the beginning of tears forming in her eyes. I can tell she doesn't want the others to see them, so she just nods her head and takes off for her room. I feel bad for causing her this pain, but when she's alive at the end of the Games, maybe she'll understand.

Now I just have to put the other pieces of my plan into place to make sure she lives to give me that understanding.


End file.
